


Food and Cheer and Song Above Hoarded Gold

by ken_ichijouji (dommific)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Character Study, Comfort Food, Domestic Fluff, Family, M/M, Mentioned Emil Nekola/Michele Crispino, Mickey and Sara's Nonna may be my finest OC to date, Yeah btw some of the family members are OCs, food as home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 23:55:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18670981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dommific/pseuds/ken_ichijouji
Summary: Against all odds, he gets silver. He also gets scouted by a different coach whose home rink is in Saga. It’s a larger city with a bigger, better facilities and greater, grander opportunity. He’d have to move there with a guardian so he can continue his schooling.Yuuri comes home, his family giving him his special treat for winning: perfectly cooked rice, crispy fried pork (never soggy!), unctuous fried egg, thin shaved scallions. It smells like his mother, like his life frozen in this moment and the future ahead he cannot possibly read.Sometimes to feel at home, all you require is a favored dish made with care and love. A piece featuring how food can make a home from theOkaeri Zine: Uchiedition in collaboration with Annie's Art World.





	Food and Cheer and Song Above Hoarded Gold

#  かつどん

 

He is fourteen when he has to go away for a weekend without his mother, Minako, or his older sister. He’s competing in the juniors category at All-Japan for the first time, and his coach assures him he’ll do better than fine.

Yuuri hugs his mother goodbye as Minako ruffles his hair. They both pretend to not see the tears filling her eyes, and off he goes to Sendai. He only has doubles on his roster and he knows there are whispers of others in his discipline with triples and even a quad or two.

Mari treated him to noise-canceling earbuds, and he puts them in while playing music from Victor’s older programs as well as his own short and free pieces for this trip. His costume is blue and red with stretch velvet and sequins, his choreographer suggested he try gel in his hair for the first time, and he keeps his eyes on his trainers as people perform ahead of him.

His short is very good, but his free ends up perfect, and the sportscasters begin to buzz about how Katsuki Yuuri is the future of Japanese figure skating, how his spins are already so much more flawless than older competitors, how his step sequences are undeniably sharp.

Against all odds, he gets silver. He also gets scouted by a different coach whose home rink is in Saga. It’s a larger city with a bigger, better facilities and greater, grander opportunity. He’d have to move there with a guardian so he can continue his schooling.

Yuuri comes home, his family giving him his special treat for winning: perfectly cooked rice, crispy fried pork (never soggy!), unctuous fried egg, thin shaved scallions. It smells like his mother, like his life frozen in this moment and the future ahead he cannot possibly read.

Vicchan begs for a bite or twelve, Yuuri only allowing him to have two. His room with its walls covered in posters of Victor is up a single flight of stairs down the hall from a banquet room for private parties.

The school year ends in March, and his first year of high school would begin in April. Entrance exams loom ahead of him in January and February...he can pick good schools in the city of Saga, come home for school breaks and the off-season--

Moving to and learning the navigation of a new city will be difficult with a few short weeks, but Mari is attending university in Honjo. They can make it work, and it won’t be so lonesome to be a train ride from all that he’s ever truly known.

Yuuri doesn’t want to ask during a celebration. He eats his favorite food, memorizing the flavors just in case.

In three months, his apartment with Mari and Vicchan will be a few blocks from his new rink, four train stops from his school, and once a rice cooker is acquired, will smell more like home thanks to a housewarming dinner of katsudon.

 

#  Lasagne / ผัดกระเพราไก่

 

Few people truly appreciate the sacrifices many make for their dreams, but after the fourth restaurant purporting itself to be Thai lets him down, Phichit cannot help but sulk on the couch in the house he shares with his hilarious coach until he can legally move out in the United States.

The vowel-consonant combination in Celestino Cialdini is confounding to his developing English, so he bestows upon him the moniker of  _ Ciao Ciao _ after his favorite greeting. Ciao Ciao is happy, encouraging, and warm, but Ciao Ciao wouldn’t know the proper use of lemongrass if it danced in front of him and so Phichit is now filled with seeds of distrust when he recommends a restaurant to him.

Phichit rarely gets homesick, as he knows this is a long game to bring Thailand glory and to bring the love of skating to those in Chiang Mai, Bangkok, Pak Kret, and beyond. When it’s cold and dark, he has more difficulty than typical brushing it aside.

Phichit misses warm sun, bustling neon, floating markets, the perfume of the golden rains hanging by his bedroom window every spring. When he gets down like this, he wants his Yāy’s jok moo and sticky rice and his mother’s pad krapow gai with a runny egg on top.

Nowhere in Detroit manages to get the spices perfect. The basil isn’t fresh enough. The peppers they substitute aren’t quite correct. One memorable occasion, the chicken is diced instead of minced.

Ciao Ciao disappeared into the kitchen a long, long time ago, and aromas fill the lower level of the house like tomatoes, herbs, stewed meat and sweet sausage. Phichit rounds the corner into the breakfast nook, and his coach wears a headband made of gaudy iridescent lycra possibly from his ice dance days along with his normal ponytail. An apron of black and gold is spattered with red sauce.

A baking dish bubbles on top of the stove. There’s goey, thick cheese and fresh oregano and basil smells filling the air. Roasted garlic, too.

“My grandma’s prize-winning recipe,” Ciao Ciao explains as he serves Phichit far too much for his nutrition plan. “This is always what I crave when I’m sad. She passed six months before I took you on, and it feels like a day that we both can use her.”

It looks gloppy and red, but it tastes  _ amazing _ . It’s rich with several cheeses, one creamy with a sour twinge on the way down, one thick and melty like pizza, one browned on the very top. There are layers of wide, thin noodles, meat sauce, more of the noodles, sausage, sauce, noodles again, until the slices they eat tower over their plates, threatening to topple at any moment.

It’s not pad kaprow gai, but it’s hearty, filling, and warm as the biting lake winds descend and the days shorten.

They will eat it in a few years when Yuuri joins them and is having a hard day of his own, and then when the time comes for Phichit to return to Bangkok with Ciao Ciao alongside him, he returns the favor thanks to an introduction of  _ proper _ pad kaprow gai.

Ciao Ciao smiles just as much with his first mouthful as he does with a fresh, homemade lasagne.

 

#  Esquites

 

The season is about a week from beginning, but that isn’t why the whole street is blocked off or why Leo’s Mama has been cooking for the last two days. The tamales alone take about four hours, after all, and they can be back-pain causing work like mastering a triple axel. 

His abuelos are celebrating fifty years of marriage, and the whole block is coming to the party. The festivities start at noon and will last well after dark, beyond when his grandparents can keep up with the kids lighting sparklers or the adults with glasses of spiked horchata, tequila refrescas, and Micheladas with ice cold pilsner.

Leo is old enough to be given tasks, but he loves helping feed his loved ones, and so he works with no complaints. He drags the blade of a knife down the sides of ears of sweet corn, setting the kernels aside in a large bowl. He heats oil on the stove, and when it shimmers in his mama’s prized cast iron skillet, he toasts it until it’s golden, adding garlic before removing it from the heat.

The crowd is enormous, so he does this many, many more times than he would for a Sunday dinner.

Once all the corn is cooked, he combines it with cojito, mayonnaise, cilantro, jalapenos and then flavoring it with lime juice and chili powder by taste. His mouth cannot tell a difference after the fourth time. “Mama,” he calls.

His mother joins him, taking a bite off the spoon. “A touch more lime and it’s ready,” she advises with a grin.

Once he follows her instructions, he tops the bowl with more cojito. The esquites salad is room temperature, so he takes it to the buffet by the dog park on their street.

His Papa has slow-smoked a pork shoulder for the occasion, and the party begins in earnest when his grandparents arrive. They’re the real stars, but friends, neighbors, and extended family ask Leo about his skating. He’s honest that not having a quad and doing his own choreography is an uphill battle, but when he plays “Still Alive” and shows the moves on the ground, he’s treated to a standing ovation.

When the sun sets prettily against the smog of Southern California, Leo’s grandma brings him a beer. “But I’m only eightee—”

She shushes him. “You’re a man now no matter what the law says,  mi corazón.”

Leo’s coach would not approve, but he drinks the beer as slow as he can before it warms if only to make his grandma smile.  
  


#  Cannoncini

 

“Michele, you put that back,” Nonna admonishes. “You’ll have no room for dinner.”

Mickey holds a lemon cannoncino in his right hand. “Nonna— ”

“Your pants for your gala costume were tight in Moscow, Mickey!” Sara chortles as she takes two of them for herself. She bites into one, dusting her lips  with powdered sugar in the process.

Mickey scowls at her in response. “Just because you made the final and I didn’t,” he grumbles.

Sara’s smile is deceptively innocent and sweet. She polishes off a second helping.

“ Mia piccola principessa,” Nonna says as she kisses Sara’s cheek. “You will shine so brightly in Barcelona next week. I have no doubt you will rise to first place after being robbed last year in Sochi.”

“She fell out of her Bielmann,” Mickey retorts, stealing a cannoncino before Nonna takes it away to give to Sara. “Nonna, come on!”

Nonna relents, giving Mickey six of the pastries. She kisses his cheek like she did his sister.

“Nonna, when will you reconsider moving in with Mama and Papa?” Sara asks. Their grandfather passed two years ago, and her house is way too big for just herself.

The unspoken fear she could fall and no one would know is shared between the twins. Mickey catches her eye and gives an approving nod.

Sara continues. “You know there’s plenty of space in the house, and you’d have Mama and Papa to talk to anytime you’d like.”

“This is home, Sara,” Nonna says. “I don’t know about selling it. What about Christmas or birthdays?”

“Traditions can change, Nonna,” Mickey says. “You’d see us a lot more, and we can find new places to call our spots. Mama would still let you cook most of Christmas, we’re sure.”

“Four walls don’t make a home, Nonna,” Sara adds.

Nonna puts grounds and water into her Moka Pot. While it heats on the front burner, she thinks, and her precious grand-twins stay silent.

Mostly silent. Mickey and Sara scuffle a little over more of the cannoncini in hushed voices when they speak at all. Sara has a costume and tights to fit as well as jumps to safely land in less than a week, while Mickey has a small reprieve before Nationals and Euros.

Nonna pours the piping hot coffee into three demitasses. None of them add sugar. “I’ll consider it,” she acquiesces, which is further than their mother has gotten.

Sara smiles at her, while Mickey nods.

“Michele,” Nonna asks. “That nice Czech boy… is he single?”

Sara snorts.

Mickey sputters. “ _ Nonna _ .” His cheeks are a more vibrant red than his hair.

“You’re not getting any younger, and you should try dating sometime,” Nonna continues. “Great-grandchildren who are Olympians like their papas would be lovely to see before I leave this world.”

Sara actually laughs while Mickey flails, protesting far, far too much that Emil is just a friend, really. She takes another bite of a pastry, memorizing the teal tile and lemon-yellow curtains of the kitchen just in case.

About time someone besides her noticed his intentions towards her dim brother.

 

#  ЖАРЕНЫЕ ПИРОЖКИ

 

Kolya Plisetsky is elbows up in flour and active yeast when his beloved Yuri bursts into the kitchen. “Dedushka, don’t— ” Yuri says as he takes the bowl, doing the heavy lifting for him.

“I’m not frail, you know,” Kolya protests.

Yuri makes the dough by rote. It’s not even the thousandth time he’s done this, just like he hadn’t landed his quads for the first time in Barcelona, like he hadn’t won gold with the fire of pride filling his gaze too many times to count before.

Once it’s ready, he puts it in the bread maker so it will rise and mix the way it requires. There’s about ninety minutes until the next steps are necessary. Yuri purchased the breadmaker for him with his first victory purse in juniors, though Kolya protested he should save the money for a rainy day.

Yuri insists on car shopping for him, but Kolya wins that battle every time.

They aren’t making the katsudon piroshki today. Kolya offered, but Yuri said no, buying ground beef, dill, and mayonnaise for the beef ones from his youth. He browns the filling in a skillet as Kolya watches across the room.

Just since his last visit during Rostelecom, his cheeks are less soft and his jaw a bit more square. Has he grown? He was so slight before. His mother is average height, so perhaps he will end up about the same stature as the silver medalist from the Final he pretends he doesn’t admire so much.

His hair has grown almost shoulder length, pulled half out of his eyes in a messy bun, and Yuri chatters about school, about a friend named Otabek that Kolya recalls from television, of Lilia and Yakov and their possible reconciliation, of his beautiful Potya Kolya gifted him from a shelter when he won his first gold.

Yuri wets his hands, coats them in flour, and glares when he tries to help. “Katsudon and the Old Man think they can beat me at Worlds,” he complains when half of the piroshki are filled. “Victor will be lucky if he still has any cartilage in his knees by then, he’s so useless.”

“And the other Yuuri?” Kolya can’t help but tease, his voice a loving, affectionate burr for his only grandchild.

Yuri’s cheeks turn pink. “He’ll probably do fine,” is his close-lipped answer.

Kolya tries to not laugh, thinking of the Japanese skating article he found loaded on the browser of Yuri’s computer right before Worlds last spring. Yuri can not read a single word, but the dynamic photographs and his own extra effort in mimicking Katsuki’s step sequences speak volumes.

A dutch oven is filled halfway with oil, and when it’s reached the proper temperature, Yuri fries the piroshki in batches. There are far, far too many for just two people, but Kolya will freeze the majority for Yuri to take back to St. Petersburg at the end of his stay.

Yuri decides when they’re cool enough to handle, and they coat bites in vmochanka as Kolya listens attentively to his Yurochka.

“Dedushka, if I pay for the ticket and the hotel, will you come?” Yuri asks. Boldness is his defining trait, but right now he is uncertain, as though Kolya will reject his generosity.

Taipei is quite far to travel, his knees disliking airplane seats. The money could have a less frivolous purpose.

Then again, as he looks into Yuri’s eyes… is there anything less frivolous than supporting a dear loved one? “Early flights only. I hate being at the airports late.”

“Dedushka!” Yuri flings himself across the table, and the vmochanka spills all over the floor, the plastic bowl clattering on the wood as he holds Kolya tight. “It means so much to me! Thank you!”

As Yuri opens a travel app on his phone to search for the best rates, Kolya considers packing some frozen piroshki for him as a good luck taste of home before he wins gold again.

 

#  かつどん

 

Yuuri sometimes still can’t make sense of the gold medal from Worlds in  _ his _ trophy cabinet and not his fiancé’s, but Victor insists he’s never been prouder to bring home silver and so it goes.

The days are growing longer, much longer. Victor keeps babbling ideas to him about the White Nights, how they must do all these amazing, romantic things when it’s still light out at midnight like boat cruises or masked parties.

Yuuri sits on the couch with Makkachin sleeping on his legs and ankles as he scrolls through his Instagram feed. Phichit has videos of Celestino eating grasshoppers in his Story, and Yuuri laughs at the faces his former coach pulls until an achingly familiar aroma fills the flat.

“Is that katsudon?” Yuuri asks with a wide-eyed expression. He brushes the long bangs out of his vision to see Victor unobstructed as he pan-fries pork cutlets in panko.

“It is,” Victor says without looking, his brows furrowed as he concentrates on his task. A few minutes later, and Victor brings two bowls as he nudges Makkachin so they can all share the couch. Makkachin drops fully to the floor with shining, dark eyes as they give thanks for the food and dig in with the lacquered chopsticks Mari gave them as a housewarming gift.

Yuuri takes two bites, and his heart fills with not only love but wonder: perfectly cooked rice, crispy fried pork (not soggy!), unctuous fried egg, thin shaved scallions. “When did you learn to make this?”

“All those nights you stayed late at Minako’s studio,” Victor answers. He sips on a sparkling water flavored with a hint of lime and cherry. “Idle hands and so on. I thought it’d be a good idea to know how to do it myself.”

Yuuri flushes with pleasure, but he resumes eating without comment. The sweet smile on his lips says all he needs to say.

Victor stares into space for a moment. “You know… I’m glad I did that. Making Mama’s food… I miss home less.”

“We are hom…” Yuuri trails off. Victor’s cheeks are dark pink as he pointedly looks down into rice and pork. Yuuri’s heart spills over not only with joy but love and peacefulness. “Me too,” he finishes instead.

Victor meets his eyes then with a smile, and Yuuri sets his bowl down to kiss him at the corner of his mouth.

Home has been a room above an inn filled with posters of his idol;  an apartment near an elite high school and a rink that trains Olympians in large city a train away from the onsen; a shared space in Detroit with his best friend’s hamsters chittering at three am while he studied-- and back to the inn, sharing a banquet room converted into a living space.

Now home is  _ here _ , a flat on the top floor of a pre-Soviet building overlooking the river as he pours through wedding catalogues with the love of his life.

Anywhere is home, Yuuri decides, as long as he is surrounded by loving people within its walls.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This was for the Okaeri zine's SFW Uchi edition. I got to partner with the lovely and incredible Annie's Art World for this piece, [and I cannot tell you enough how much I love the illustration.](https://annie-s-artworld.tumblr.com/post/184581816831/we-can-post-our-work-for-yoihomezine-i-made-two)
> 
> The heading-sized fonts are the names of the food, btw, so katsudon, lasagne, [pad krapow gai](https://www.allrecipes.com/recipe/257938/spicy-thai-basil-chicken-pad-krapow-gai/), [esquites](https://www.seriouseats.com/recipes/2012/07/esquites-mexican-street-corn-salad-recipe.html), [cannoncini](https://philosokitchen.com/cannoncini-recipe-italian-cannoli/), piroshki, and back to katsudon.
> 
> I had another piece in the Love Hotel edition as well! All of the works are wonderful and made with the utmost care, so let's spread the love to all the participants. :)
> 
> [Tumblr](https://sinkingorswimming.tumblr.com) // [Twitter](https://twitter.com/sink_or_swim)


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